


five-thousand-thirty-eight men dancing on the wall

by aglowSycophant



Category: Original Work
Genre: Cannibalism, I was in a weird mood, Metaphors, Other, POV First Person, POV Second Person, Unreliable Narrator, its 4:46am, just a little bit of vomit, kind of also
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:28:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24586129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aglowSycophant/pseuds/aglowSycophant
Summary: Gaps form when we're alive. We are poltergeists, chained to one another.Gangrenous.You were prettiest when you were dead.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	five-thousand-thirty-eight men dancing on the wall

"You're drunk," you say, running your hands up and down my neck. Your fingers are cold and clammy. You're skeletal. You're flesh, rotting from within. I think of your hands in my mouth. I think of tearing flesh from your hands, swallowing sweet bites of savory decay. Necrotic. Gangrenous.

I smile.

"No, I'm not," I answer. My mouth contorts with every word. My lips pull back too far, stretched to their limits, then snap back. I'm a rubber man, after all. Held together with rubber bands. "I'm not."

"You're not," you confirm. I feel better, once you've said that. I run my hand up your side, feeling your flesh. You're warm. I dig my thumb in and pinch you. Delightfully, I pick off bits of you to eat. I raise you to your lips. You take the whole of my hand into my mouth and you eat at my fingers, nibbling at necrotic tissue from around the piece of you. "You're not, yes."

"I'm not," I agree, laughing. "Yes, yes..."

"No," you murmur. There is something acidic in your mouth. Vomit, I realize. So, with my fingers, I fuck it back down your throat. As if a guillotine, your mouth closes. I've lost my hand. I've always wanted it to be you, that I've lost it to. I pull my wrist away. You chew at my hand. Puke burbles up past your lips.

We smile.

"I think I love you," I confess. I can't remember your face. Looking at you, I can't remember you. We're dead, after all. Ghosts have no faces. Neither do we. "I love you."

"No, you don't," you say again. Your face contorts. I can't tell what you're feeling. You're upset. Disappointed. I'm rushing into this too fast. I don't know what you're thinking. Do you hate me? Your pupils constrict. You hate me, I realize. I love you. "You're drunk."

"I'm not." Your shirt has stripes on it. Horizontal and red atop white. It's a tank top. You're very pretty. It's my shirt, but you look better in it. I couldn't forget you. "Stop saying that."

You sigh, huffing a breath out your nose. You smell like cherries. I want nothing more than to feel you. I can't. I have to wait, of course. Till marriage. Till death. We aren't dead yet. We're young, you and I. Next week, I'll be twenty-three.

"Why do you keep doing this?" You sound elated. Delighted. I like seeing you happy. I laugh. I think of cherry pits and apple seeds and peaches. You'd make a wonderful garden. I love you. You love me. We're made for each other.

"I like it," I answer. I think of eating you. You think of eating me. You think of my flesh, sour in your mouth. You think I wouldn't be any good to eat at all. You can't tell what I'm thinking, or why I hurt you. You can't tell at all.

There's a growing gap between us.

Gaps are easier to close when you're dead.

I haven't seen you smile in a decade. I think it was me, that made you like that. I miss you. Can you hear this? Can you hear me? I miss you. I love you.

"You're so selfish," you comment. Your words are harsh. Like knives. Like five-thousand-and-thirty-eight knives, stabbing me. Five-thousand-and-thirty-eight is a constructed number. Your words, too, are constructed. I cut you up and rearrange you. You add up to the last of you. "You don't fucking think."

"I'm sorry." You don't know why I'm saying that. I'm like an answering machine. Like an automated reply. There isn't anything natural about me. When you married me five years ago, you didn't think I would be like this. Like a fucking bum. Like a gaunt asshole drunk on his bed, groping at your skin. You don't hate me, but you don't love me, either.

I've changed.

Gaps form when we're alive. We are poltergeists, chained to one another.

Gangrenous.

You were prettiest when you were dead.

You open your mouth to say something, but we don't know what. There isn't anything to say. Every word you could say would be wasted on me.

I want to kiss you. My thumb traces over your jawline. You're tense, above me. I couldn't hurt you, even if I wanted to. We're touching, but we're miles apart. One form, and the flesh tears as they run.

"You're drunk," you say again, like that's an answer. I look at you and smile. "Stop."

"Do you hate me?" I ask.

You lick your lips and blink.

"Let's not get hung up on formalities," you say instead. You're formal. You're a very formal person. I want to see you in a wedding dress. I want to get married to you.

"Is that a yes?" It wasn't no. It wasn't no, so it must be yes. "Please, let me..."

My hands move to fumble with something, but there isn't anything to touch.

You sigh. You touch my wrist.

You've never touched me before.

"You're drunk," you say, running your hands up and down my neck. Your fingers are cold and clammy. You're skeletal. You're flesh, rotting from within. I think of your hands in my mouth. I think of tearing flesh from your hands, swallowing sweet bites of savory decay. Necrotic. Gangrenous.

I smile.


End file.
